


Untouchable

by greengrapegaze



Series: Steps to a Bittersweet Symphony [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, Emotions, Happy Ending, Inspired by Music, JohnxOC - Freeform, JohnxOFC, Loneliness, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Oblivious John, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Poor Sherlock, Pre-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, Romance, Sad, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Unhappy, Unrequited, Unrequited At Beginning, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greengrapegaze/pseuds/greengrapegaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b><i>Untouchable</i></b><br/><b>un·touch·a·ble</b><br/>ˌənˈtəCHəbəl<br/>adjective<br/>1. not able or allowing to be touched or affected.<br/>"<i>You look sad when you think he can't see you.</i>"<br/>"<i>All hearts are broken.</i><br/>"<i>We all hated him.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shattered On the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Livvy, for persuading me to just write a blurb and reminding me that not everything has to be really long.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Untouchable_**  
>  If I'm not fit- _to even crawl if I'm too sick_  
>  I'll soak my skin in alcohol until I feel **_untouchable_**.  
>  **Untouchable. Untouchable.**

_**First you wash your hair—**_

Date shoes, recently polished- _ **third date and likely to go well**_ -new hair cut, fresh cologne, delicately pressed attire, and smiling... _Smiling_? Sherlock's gaze snapped away from the lips stretching into a confident grin to the bright cobalt blues focusing on a sharp reflection in the bathroom mirror. Spindly fingers twitched with the urge to cart through wheaten locks, heart throbbing in a way that made him nauseous to the core. _No._

" _Might not even come back tonight. You'll be alright, yeah?_ " Were the words that struck him from his mild emotional crisis. Would one consider it mild if their chest tightened and their heart shrank with the force of it? He would save the inquiry for a later date. One where John remained home with tea in hand and no intention of leaving him behind. He could imagine John hadn't left if he went into his mind palace... But then he might risk the chance of awakening to an empty flat. _No _. It would serve to further his discontent instead.__

" _She's a beaut, Sherlock... Just absolutely gorgeous-funny as well-and you might even like her!_ " _No_. He never would. Petty, childish, immature- _bitter_. **Jealous**. She had all that he wanted. All he could never have. 

_**Then you wash your hands—**_

The first text came at 9:32 PM; _It's going great! -JW_.

How funny that three words could bring a scalding burn to glasz eyes and a chill to a darkening heart. He set his phone down and washed his hands again and again. As if scrubbing them so brutally would purify them of the urge to hold and caress. It couldn't, but he didn't stop. Not as the infection grew to a smolder that burned through each synapse begging the question, _when is the day he will never come home_? He gave no response.

The second text came at 10:47 PM; _Not coming home tonight. -JW_.

There was no need to read the text. It had been obvious that John would be staying over at the woman's place before the man even left. Nonetheless, he tortured himself with the finality of actually checking the text message. Now he couldn't pollute reality into conforming for his comfort. His stomach hollowed and his chest compressed even further. It was only thirty four seconds before he was climbing into the shower. The water scalding hot to drown the ache with the sting of overheated skin. He remained where he was for a long while until his flesh became over abundantly sensitized. 

At 12:13 AM, Sherlock sprawled out on the couch and fell asleep in hopes that John would be home when he woke up.

John was not home at 9:58 AM.

_**Oh yeah, I think I understand.**_


	2. I Thought of My Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you walked down the stairs.  
>  _D'you think I'd **defile** you if you were **too close**?_  
>  _D'you think I'd **infect** you?_  
>  _D'you think I'd give you a **dose**_?

_**If you were an angel—** _

Monotony would have disturbed the detective if he weren't so desperate for the serenity repetition could cause. He stood from his place on the couch, taking in the silence and sheer _emptiness_ of the flat. Fingers twitched, eyes burned, and emotion flooded him. **Pathetic**. He stalked away, believing that the distance would aid in his reproach of his vulnerability. It served to further his weakness instead. Bitterness took reign, guiding the desperate loneliness into his heart to tear away all common sense and logic. 

_Never coming home_. _He's happy without you_. _Did you truly think he could ever be yours?_ **No**.

Sherlock started on his tea with shaky hands, fully aware that he would have no relief from his malcontent guise.

_**I would cut off your wings—** _

10:29 AM rolled by with obvious discontent. John Watson was still not home. 

11:13 AM, Sherlock began to play the violin.

12:45 PM, the detective found himself curling up on his bloggers bed with his pillow crushed to his chest.

He felt nothing more than weak, sensitive, and full of burdening. He would never be strong enough to let go. **Selfish** and _greedy_ to strive for more than he deserved. Such a brilliant being did not warrant filth. He would corrupt the blond- _suffocating_ him with disappointment and resentment. The good doctor would be defiled by his acerbic love. He knew how their relationship would pan out. How glorious it would be in the beginning, so **full** of affection and infatuation. It would guide them through life and it would be as if the bawdy grey skies of London cleared simply for them. Existence within each other and purpose for only their very happiness. He estimated three weeks before doubt set in and John began to see who he truly was. A troublesome **_infection_**. It wouldn't end there; no relationship simply _ended_. It would drag out, silence becoming a common factor in their conversations. _Or lack of_ , whenever they began to argue with repetition in topic and raised volumes. John would begin staying out later, threats of potential infidelity would enter his thoughts, risks and statistics of emotional divorce gone through the window and out the door along with the doctor's form. More pub discoveries, more cases, and an empty flat would be the sum of their interlocked lives. He had known all his life; from the time Mycroft called him ' _stupid_ ' and his mother consoled him with, " _You're just extra special, darling_." As if it were okay to be socially inept. A _contagion_ for the rise of discomfort in others. He had a vast amount of experience, so how could he be anything else? 

_No_ , Sherlock was nothing but **untouchable**. 

And as he laid in John's bed, arms vising against the pillow tucked to his chest, Sherlock attempted to commit the man's scent to memory. Tea, shampoo, and the _soft_ hint of his aftershave. He stayed there a long while to surround himself in the comfort of familiarity and impossibilities. Allowing the chill of the sheets to console the ache in his chest and the scald of his eyes. It was as if hours had gone by before he picked himself up, righted the room, and made himself comfortable on the sofa once more. 

John came home at 1:56 PM.

_**To keep you with me—** _

The sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs were his first indication to John's rage. The slam of the door, toss of his coat over the rack, and the removal of his shoes were the indication that something was _very not right_. He slowly lifted into a sitting position, expression blank as the doctor walked into the room. Upon seeing the detective, John held his hand up with a terse hiss of, " _ **Not now**_." The relief that flooded him was repulsing but so very welcome. He laid back down gingerly against the arm rest, his new position languorous and indulgent. As if it were obvious that he were waiting for an explanation. John must have made note of it as the man began to have a true _fit_

"It was fine! _Honest_. We had dinner, we got really close, took a cab to hers, shagged, and then woke up a bit late... It was everything else that was utter _hell_. She kept talking about her bloody dog. And the dog-God, that _thing_ -was..." The man drew a pause, bringing a hand up to rub his temples as he tried to find the words. It was a few pregnant seconds before he spoke again. "It was _dead_ , Sherlock. She went on and on about her bloody _dead_ dog." He practically growled, dropping into his chair with a displeased grunt. "Don't think I'll be seeing her again... Now, any new cases?" 

A coral cupid's bow tugged into a smile at the displeased tone John used to describe the date. Feelings of pettiness and immaturity lost their reign but not their effects. Happiness budded in their places to swamp every malcontent emotion with full appraising satisfaction. The words bubbled through him to lift each dark crevice towards the light. The near constant emotional bindings of his heart dissipated to warm the frigid muscle into relaxing. Sherlock sank into the comfort greedily as if he were a man starved for the attention. 

For just a little while longer, John Watson was all his.  

_**I would do anything—** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Livvy said I couldn't tease her if I didn't have a happy ending, so...  
> Here it goes. A happy ending. Sort of.  
> I mean, it's not the "And they got together and shagged their bloody brains out," sort of ending.  
> No matter. I hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
